


Fired or, It's not you, it's me

by gracefultree



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 10:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: Iris has just broken off the therapeutic relationship with John.





	Fired or, It's not you, it's me

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I must admit that I am BIASED. I HATE Iris. She's a perfect example of what not to do as a therapist, and I get upset when they're seen doing such stupidly immoral and unethical things (for no good reason!) on TV. I could go over the proper things to do when one feels attracted to one's patient, and dropping them without an explanation isn't it, but I know a lot of us probably know that and are suspending their disbelief for the good of the show. I'm still biased against her. 
> 
> Second, there was no need for her relationship with John! Whether I'm shipping him with Harold or not, it was a throwaway bit of nonsense that just didn't need to be there. No passion. Nothing to really say why they'd get together, other than that John's hot. (He is, I'm not denying that!) It might have been more interesting if she just stayed his therapist! 
> 
> Third, I'm rewatching the whole series again, and while I've watched Seasons 1-3 many times, this is only my second time watching 4 & 5\. I dislike Iris even more this time. 
> 
> Fourth, I loved Terra Incognito! It's one of my all-time favorite episodes, and I'm glad that John's revelations that night don't just disappear and that he follows up with Fusco and the rest of the gang. 
> 
> *deep breath* 
> 
> I'll get off my soapbox and let you enjoy my writing.

“Are you firing me as a patient?” John asked, his eyes focused on Iris’ face. She seemed upset and determined. He found himself frowning. “Last session, I shared some things… violence in my past… It could make you upset,” he suggested. He couldn’t quite believe this was happening. He’d finally felt like he could share something with her, however couched in lies the facts were. He’d talked about Carter… his _father_! 

“No, John, there’s nothing you could tell me in session that would upset me,” she insisted. 

John wanted to roll his eyes. He knew a lie when he heard one. He also knew that if he shared certain things about himself, she _would_ be upset. There was no getting around it. She was basically a good person, a decent one. She lived with cops, with laws and rules and a strict definition of good and bad. He didn’t begrudge her that belief, he’d had it once, after all, but he knew better now. And he knew that if he mentioned the wetwork he’d had to do… she’d run. 

But he’d heard the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech before, and while they weren’t dating, he recognized it for what it was. 

It was _definitely_ about him. 

He didn’t allow himself to feel loss over this. He had a number to save, even if she didn’t want help, but then the number had to go and kiss him… several times. And, oh, he’d wanted to take it farther, he was feeling lonely and disheartened and a roll in the sheets would be just what he needed to banish those thoughts, but she didn’t want what he was offering because she didn’t think it was on offer. 

Then there was Iris, snapping at him to join her in her office like she was furious with him. Late at night. He felt on-guard, ready for violence because of her tone, so when she told him that she had feelings for him, he didn’t immediately understand. 

He figured it out when she kissed him. 

So, he kissed her back because he really was out of sorts, and he already knew that a roll in the sheets would be good for him, so he let things go and fucked her across her desk, and figured that would be the end of it. They’d get it out of their systems and could go back to being a therapist and patient. 

It wasn’t the end, though, and they didn’t go back to their professional relationship. She kept calling, wanting to see him, wanting sex. 

When Zoe called him out on dating his therapist, he didn’t acknowledge it. They weren’t dating. They just had sex occasionally. But Zoe’s words stuck with him. _Those therapist types, they want to settle down._

. 

. 

. 

The key turning in the lock of his apartment woke him from a doze. He wasn’t ready for active duty yet after almost freezing to death, and sleeping on the couch seemed like the best course of action. 

“John, I thought I’d come by with some food, as I imagine you’re not up for cooking yet,” Harold said, his voice muffled by a scarf. John heard paper bags crinkling. 

Trust Finch to take care of him, he thought. The man took great pleasure in seeing to his needs… 

“I also brought some reading material, of course,” Harold continued. “Oh, hello.” 

The surprise and wariness in Harold’s voice put John on alert immediately. He grabbed the back of the couch and struggled to pull himself to a seated position. 

Harold and Iris stood facing one another, Harold carrying two grocery bags, Iris with a ladle in one hand. 

“Who are you?” she demanded of Harold. 

“A friend of Detective Riley’s,” Harold answered cautiously. “And you?” 

“Iris. Dr. Iris Campbell,” she replied. “We’re dating.” 

“Oh.” Harold shifted, turning towards John, who shrugged at the unspoken question, telling Harold that she was safe enough. “I’ll just leave this with you, then?” he asked, offering the bags. 

Iris readjusted her ladle and took the bags from him, trotting off to the kitchen with them. 

“I was gonna tell you,” John said to Harold, who’d drifted closer. 

“I’m sure,” Harold murmured dryly. “Let me know when you’re back to full strength,” he added. “I’m sure Ms. Groves and I can handle whatever comes up in the meantime.” 

Harold was gone by the time Iris returned to the room. 

“Where’s your friend?” she asked. 

“He left,” John answered. “He didn’t want to impose when he saw that I already had a guest.” 

“Where’d you meet?” 

John closed his eyes, feeling bombarded by questions he couldn’t answer. He and Harold didn’t have a cover for when Riley met Whistler. 

“I’m pretty tired,” he deflected. “I think I should sleep some more.” 

. 

. 

. 

“You there, Finch?” John asked. 

Harold’s response came immediately. “Always, Mr. Reese. What can I do for you?” 

“Is there a new number?” 

“Not yet,” Harold answered. 

“Come back here,” John blurted. “She’s gone,” he added, feeling it was necessary to reassure Harold about that point. He heard Harold typing. 

“I’m on my way,” Harold said, breaking the connection. 

. 

. 

. 

“When I was dying out there in the cold, I started hallucinating,” John admitted. 

Harold pressed his lips into a thin line and settled back against the couch. Riley didn’t have much in the way of furniture, so they were sharing it, and because his legs were so long, John’s feet were in Harold’s lap even though he was sitting up against the far arm of the couch, propped up with pillows. 

“A symptom of hypothermia,” Harold murmured. He rested one hand on his arm of the couch, the other on John’s ankle. “Would you like to talk about what you saw?” 

“Can’t get anything past you,” John joked. Harold made a harrumphing noise. “I saw Joss,” John said. “We talked.” Harold made another sound of encouragement. “We talked… like we never did when she was alive. We talked about real things. About Jessica.” 

John took a long breath and let it out slowly to prepare himself. “I thought, maybe you and me could talk. About real things.” 

Harold froze like the avians his aliases so preferred. John could feel the tension in his lap, could feel the tension in the hand that now gripped his ankle tightly. 

“You don’t have to share,” John rushed to add. “I just — I was starting to get used to talking to Iris, and then —“ He waved his hand ineffectually around the air. “Now we’re doing this, apparently.” 

Harold squeezed his eyes shut, and moved his mouth, silently talking to someone. John didn’t have the proper angle to be able to read his lips. There was sadness in his expression when he opened his eyes. 

“I used to rub Nathan’s feet when we talked of the heart,” Harold whispered. “He was tall, like you, and I needed something to do with my hands to focus my attention.” 

John gasped in surprise at the admission. 

“Do you have lotion? I suspect your feet have their share of calluses.” 

“It’s… in the bathroom,” John replied hesitantly. 

Harold smiled gently and patted John’s shin. “I’ll be right back.” 

It took a few minutes to get settled. Harold returned with a towel and nail clippers, as well as the lotion, and arranged everything (including the position of John’s feet) to his liking. It took another few minutes for John to relax enough for Harold to be able to start, though Harold didn’t seem surprised or even upset as he simply held John’s feet to warm them with his hands. 

“You were going to tell me about talking with Joss?” Harold prompted, his fingers smoothing lotion over the bottoms of John’s feet, then over the tops. He squeezed each toe individually, then started rubbing along John’s arch. 

“In the dream, she asked why I left Jessica. I gave her my usual answer: That I thought I was going to die over there.” 

“That wasn’t the real answer?” Harold wondered. 

“I thought that— I thought that if I didn’t have someone to come home to, someone’s picture to carry, — I thought I might be better at my job.” 

“Less afraid of dying because your death wouldn’t hurt anyone else?” Harold suggested. 

“Yeah.” 

Harold applied more lotion and started working it into the callus on one of John’s big toes. 

“Death has never frightened me the same way it does so many others,” Harold offered. “To me, losing my mind, my memories, my mental abilities, that’s the most frightening possibility I could imagine.” 

“Why?” John asked. 

“My father developed dementia very early,” Harold said, his hands pausing in their activity. “He encouraged me to leave home to go to college because he knew he wouldn’t be around and wanted me to have a support system. By the time I returned home at Christmas break that first year, he could no longer recognize me.” 

“That quickly?” John breathed. 

“I suppose it was a good thing,” Harold mused, resuming the foot rub. “He never knew that the FBI accused me of treason.” 

“I never knew my father,” John said. “I have an eight-year-old’s image of standing in the rain holding a flag at his funeral.” He closed his eyes. “It’s hard to try to live up to someone you don’t really know.” 

“He was decorated for his service, wasn’t he?” 

“You know that, Finch. You don’t need to ask.” 

“I was referring to your biological father.” 

John snapped his mouth shut, tensing. 

“I found the expunged records,” Harold continued, not letting go of John’s foot when he tried to jerk it away. “I had to be sure of who you were before I hired you,” he added. “I’d been — betrayed before.” 

John felt himself relaxing again. “Mercenaries aren’t known for their loyalty,” he commented. 

“Looking back, I was so naive in some ways,” Harold said. 

“We all were, once.” John paused, watching as Harold wiped his hands and the excess lotion from John’s feet before lifting the nail clipper. He raised an eyebrow in question and John shrugged. “Go ahead.” 

They stayed silent as he worked, neither wanting to interrupt his concentration. 

“Thank you,” John said as Harold began cleaning up. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Harold returned from the bathroom and poured them both glasses of Jack Daniels from John’s counter on the way back. He handed one over and retook his seat under John’s feet. 

“Do you mind telling me what’s going on with Dr. Campbell?” 

“I thought it would be a one-off,” John said. “Now she’s inserting herself everywhere in my life.” 

“Not _everywhere,_ I hope,” Harold protested. 

“I don’t have any records of what we do,” John reassured him. “I don’t talk about it. I wouldn’t. Won’t.” 

“I know,” Harold said with a sigh. “But it bears repeating.” 

“What happened between you and Root?” 

Harold opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. He considered his answer. “I spent months working on a side project and cultivating an asset to have some hope of defeating Samaritan. Ms. Groves ruined both the plan and the relationship.” He sipped his drink. “Though she didn’t kill her, thankfully. It was a close call.” He glanced at John. “I had to almost die to force her to back down.” 

John let out an angry snort. “I should’ve known. She told me you’d had another brush with death and wanted me to teach you how to shoot.” 

“So that’s where that sudden urge came from,” Harold mused. 

“I’ll leave you to your evening,” Harold said ten minutes later. “I have some work at the Subway to finish up.” He paused at the front door. “If you wanted… if you let me know ahead of time, I could bring my kit,” he offered. “There wasn’t much I could do with just the clippers.” 

“I could do your feet next time,” John replied. “We can find something for your hands to do.” 

Harold stared at him. “In over thirty years of friendship, Nathan only reciprocated five times,” Harold blurted. “And here you are, suggesting it immediately.” 

“I’m not offering a blow job,” John felt compelled to point out. 

Harold’s face scrunched as if he’d eaten something sour. “I should hope not, Mr. Reese! That falls well outside the purview of friendship, and even though our association is unusual in and of itself, I —“ 

“I’m only joking,” John interrupted gently. “Relax. I know we’re both straight, and I’m not coming on to you. I just thought it would be funnier than it was.” 

Harold let out a big gust of a breath, clearly relieved. 

“I should be back at work in a few days,” John said to break the tension. “I’ll let you know.” 

Harold nodded. “Goodnight, John.” He slipped out the door, the lock clicking closed behind him. 

. 

. 

. 

John grabbed another gun and checked it for ammo. He was surrounded by the bodies of dead and dying Samaritan agents, but between the Machine and his own skill, he’d downed all 23 of them. And probably a few extra that had come from the back. He looked up at the power substation and saw Root and Harold, the latter clutching a briefcase. The Briefcase. The one that held the Machine. 

“I am _so_ pleased to see you,” Harold said, his voice full of relief. 

John cracked a smile. “Well, I _do_ owe you a foot rub, don’t I?” 

Root looked between them, her face scrunched in confusion. “Is there something I’m missing?” 

“Oh, nothing to concern you, Ms. Groves,” Harold replied. “Just an in-joke between John and I.” 

Before anyone could say anything more, a new pair of Samaritan SUVs screeched to a halt and started divulging the agents inside. 

“Time to get out of here,” John barked, raising the gun. 

. 

. 

. 


End file.
